


too swift arrives as tardy as too slow

by Carmarthen



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Enemies to Lovers, Kissing, Kissing Games, M/M, Pre-Canon, Spin the Bottle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 23:43:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3915112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benvolio is playing spin the bottle. Tybalt is not. (They're in underground dystopian Verona, because why not.)</p><p>  <i>It wasn’t that Benvolio didn’t want to kiss Tybalt—he’d do that and gladly, any time Tybalt gave him the slightest sign that it wouldn’t lead to a black eye—but in front of a room full of jeering Montagues and whatever passed for Tybalt’s friends was far from optimal. If Tybalt hated anything more than Capulets, it was mockery.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	too swift arrives as tardy as too slow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [privatesnarker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/privatesnarker/gifts).
  * Inspired by [redrawn art](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/318618) by privatesnarker. 



> 100% privatesnarker's fault for their wonderful art and flavor text and written with their blessing. You can find a [redrawn version here](http://pastelsandsparkle.tumblr.com/post/164140424423/yo-i-think-i-leveled-up-in-drawing-kisses-redrew). ♥ This is set in an underground post-apocalyptic dystopian Verona with extremely vague worldbuilding, where Tybalt is a bit more relaxed and the tensions aren't too bad (yet).
> 
> Title ripped from Shakespeare. As usual, I'm basing characterization and appearance on current first-cast Benvolio: for visual aids, see fanart. :-)

Sampson had found the bottle in a collapsed access corridor, the bolts holding the door shut long rusted away and amenable to vigorous application of a crowbar. It floated in midair, casting a sickly green glow on the crumbling walls, but whatever the material inside was—liquid or solid, Benvolio couldn’t quite tell—it came up clean on the Geiger counter.

They probably should have left it there, but no one in Below had ever turned away from a mystery just because it might be a bad idea. This was, perhaps, how their ancestors had ended up Below in the first place, but now that they were here for better or worse, why play it safe? That sort of thinking turned you into an old man before your time, cowering away from shadows, and there were too many shadows Below to cower.

Benvolio was pretty sure, though, that whatever the old-timers had meant the bottle for, they’d probably never considered a pack of teenagers playing midair spin-the-bottle in the canteen after their work shift.

It didn’t work quite as well as the normal kind of bottle, which was how Romeo started out climbing one of the storage racks to melodramatically smooch the ceiling, to laughter and whooping and Tybalt in the corner rolling his eyes so hard Benvolio was afraid he’d pull a muscle. But after a few rounds they figured out how to spin it gently to keep it level, and the slightly sour beer Rosa had smuggled out of the Governor’s storeroom was strong enough to mellow out the usual hotheads. Even when Abraham kissed Helena Capulet, they both seemed so enthusiastic that even Tybalt only sneered a little. His hands didn’t even twitch.

It had been a long time since Benvolio was on good enough terms with Rosa for kissing or anything else, but she still kissed like the best kind of fight, wet and deep and messy, an adrenaline rush as her nails raked over Benvolio’s scalp. Her teeth sank into his lower lip just hard enough to send an unwanted ache of lust through him as she pulled away with a wink and a hard, challenging stare past his shoulder that he was pretty sure wasn’t meant for him at all.

“Wow.” Romeo nudged Benvolio in the ribs as he tried to even his breathing out and not let on that she’d gotten to him, “something you haven’t told your friends about?” And wow indeed, the boy _still_ didn’t get it. If Benvolio had been laid in recent memory he might have taken him aside to gently explain a few things to him about Rosa and how much he didn’t want to be involved in their slow trainwreck of a breakup.

Instead he ignored Romeo and gave the glowing bottle a nudge that was a little harder than he intended. The contents sloshed and slid, or maybe rattled—it hurt a little to look too closely—and an arc of cool, painless energy sprang from it as it spun, and spun, finally stilling to point at—

Someone gave a harsh bark of laughter and crowed, “Good luck with that one, Benny!”

“Yeah, you’d be better off with the ceiling,” said one of Rosa’s friends, grinning at him in mock sympathy. “Or hell, even the light fixture up there; less likely to burn you.”

One of the Capulet cousins wolf-whistled. “Missed getting your ass kicked six ways to Sunday, Benvolio? You know I’m always happy to beat some Montagues down if you’re spoiling for a fight. No need for our Tybalt to get his hands dirty.”

“I’m not playing your game, children.” Tybalt drew himself up to his full height and pushed away from the wall.

“But Benvolio is,” said Gregory, earning a glare that promised consequences later—and what had Tybalt done recently to piss off his faithful lackey, hmm? “The rules are that he has to kiss whoever the bottle’s pointing at. Can’t argue with the rules.”

It wasn’t that Benvolio didn’t want to kiss Tybalt—he’d do that and gladly, any time Tybalt gave him the slightest sign that it wouldn’t lead to a black eye—but in front of a room full of jeering Montagues and whatever passed for Tybalt’s friends was far from optimal. If Tybalt hated anything more than Capulets, it was mockery.

“Fuck off.” Tybalt vanished out the door while the room exploded into jeering laughter. Benvolio saw Abraham bump Gregory’s fist out of the corner of his eye, even though those two were usually at each other’s throats—before everyone in his vicinity started shoving him after Tybalt.

“Don’t come back until you’ve finished your round!” Rosa shouted after him, giggling.

Fuck them _all._

* * *

He found Tybalt in a near-abandoned storeroom, pacing in front of a peeling photo of Above. _Welcome to Beautiful Verona,_ it said in scrolling cursive across an orange-gray sky. He’d always wondered if that was how the sky looked Above, or if the photo had only faded.

“Tybalt, I—”

“ _Fine,_ ” Tybalt snarled before he could finish, grabbing him by his collar and the back of his head and hauling him forward so quickly he left his feet behind and almost overbalanced into Tybalt, pulse spiking with excitement shading into fear. “If you don’t understand the concept of _leaving me alone,_ have your damned kiss.”

His hand felt huge against Benvolio’s head, steady and secure if not gentle. Tybalt’s grip on his collar and Benvolio’s desperate grab for the doorframe were all that kept him from falling. If he’d thought Rosa kissed like a fight, he’d been wrong. Rosa was silken-soft, a gentle and blushing maiden, a polite waltz at the new year’s ball compared to Tybalt’s mouth coming down bruising hard on his, his tongue giving no quarter. Maybe it wasn’t a _good_ kiss, exactly, and maybe it was also a little fucked-up, but Benvolio felt dizzy, almost feverish, the jittery tension from Rosa’s kiss earlier twisting tighter and tighter in his gut. He hadn’t been this turned on in ages.

Tybalt’s hand slipped a little against his skull, caught at his hair and tugged as he tilted Benvolio’s chin up and _took._ The tension sang and sparked along every nerve, and oh, if Tybalt weren’t holding him still he’d press closer and damn the consequences. This was already more than he’d expected, better, a promise of something fierce and wild to keep him awake nights remembering.

The problem was that he had no idea how Tybalt felt; in the harsh pressure of his mouth he could feel nothing but irritation, and he already _knew_ he irritated Tybalt. He’d practically turned it from hobby into art form. By all rumor, Tybalt wasn’t so much a wham, bam, thank you ma’am kind of guy as wham, bam, sit at the opposite end of the canteen pretending not to know you kind of guy. And while there was a certain appeal to fast and rough on occasion, the puzzle of Tybalt held more of a long-term interest for him.

The kiss—if it could fairly be called that—ended as abruptly as it started, and damn the shitty wiring and dodgy lights in this shithole, because he could barely see Tybalt’s face as he said in that stick-up-the-ass leashed-murder voice of his, “Are you happy now, Montague?”

“I’m not a Montague.” Benvolio stepped closer, because apparently he had no sense of self-preservation. In for a grain, in for a florin. At least Tybalt hadn’t really been _violent,_ even if his mouth tasted a little coppery where he’d somehow managed to split his lip on Tybalt’s teeth. “And I’m afraid the rules are that _I_ have to kiss _you._ My way.”

The whites of Tybalt’s eyes gleamed when he rolled them. “Fine. Do your worst.” He’d gone tense, as rigid as if bracing for a firing squad, and just for that—and the split lip—Benvolio decided to make it as slow and sweet and _annoying_ as humanly possible. If he was only getting this one chance to get under Tybalt’s armor and not just his skin, he had to make the most of it.

"You're too tall," he murmured, tugging Tybalt down to meet him, although he didn't mean it, not when he'd pulled one off so many times to the thought of those ridiculous legs of his draped over Benvolio's shoulders.

This time Tybalt didn't try to take control, just stood there like a surly block of wood, his mouth closed up tight as a trap as Benvolio stood on tiptoes and kissed him chastely, little more than a brush of skin. Fine, he could be patient, almost drawing back but never quite breaking contact. It was too soon to give Tybalt an excuse to end it, not when he could feel the faintest softening under his lips as he nibbled gently at the corner of Tybalt's mouth.

Ah, there—even Tybalt couldn't hold out forever.

Benvolio drew back even more, until they were scarcely kissing at all, just breathing together. Tybalt's hair felt softer than it looked, and he gave in to the urge to run his fingers through it as he finally let himself draw the tip of his tongue along Tybalt's lower lip.

An infinitesimal tremble ran through the entire tall length of Tybalt's body, so swift he'd not have felt it if they hadn't been pressed so close together, Tybalt's hands clutched tight at his waist like he had to hold on. It was different this way, with enough time to tilt his head to the right angle, trace fingertips over the sharp curve of Tybalt’s cheekbone and down to the hollow of his throat, feeling his pulse flutter and jump. This time the heat curled through him slowly, diffuse but no less urgent.

At last Tybalt let him in, with a faint sigh that seemed to bleed some of the tension out of his body, like he’d finally realized it wasn’t another joke. Benvolio let himself close his eyes, let time stop in an endless second of warmth, shared breath and gentleness. The hands at his waist uncurled, just resting lightly against his hips. Tybalt’s mouth was surprisingly soft against his, almost uncertain in the unaccustomed territory of tenderness.

This time he could tell Tybalt wanted it. It was written in the hesitant slide of his tongue against Benvolio’s teeth, in the softness of his lips, in the way he let Benvolio press up against him and just curved to meet him, no longer aloof, no longer fighting.

Too soon he had to come up for air, but he didn’t move back, just leaned up against Tybalt, wrapping his hand loosely around the back of Tybalt’s neck, fingers buried in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Tybalt,” he said, groping for the right words, words that wouldn’t make Tybalt stiffen up again, wrapping himself in prickly pride.

And then Tybalt’s chron started beeping, a loud, insistent sound that made Benvolio wish for a hammer, and with the sound Tybalt shook off all his new softness, once again fully armored. He didn’t even have to push Benvolio away; his posture already felt like a punch in the gut.

“Well,” he said, bone-dry in a voice that rasped a little, with a sneer to his mouth that Benvolio didn’t like one bit. “You have your little story to tell your friends now. Good day.”

“That’s not why, you idiot—” he said to Tybalt’s retreating back, but it was too late.

He wasn’t sure who the bigger idiot was, him or Tybalt. At any rate, he’d lost his taste for kissing games for the afternoon.

* * *

Sunday breakfast was pancakes, which differed from the usual reprocessed protein slop primarily in texture; Benvolio flipped three mechanically onto his plate, wishing the grogginess would clear from his mind. He was too damn old to spend half the night wanking over a little kissing, like he'd just hit puberty. He was too damn smart to do what he was about to do. Even odds that Tybalt was going to punch him out in the canteen for it, but hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and it had been a while since there’d been a good all-out brawl.

“Morning,” Benvolio said, sliding into the bench across the table from Tybalt and setting his breakfast tray down with a clatter. With an effort, he managed not to bat his eyelashes; after yesterday Tybalt would almost certainly take that as mockery. “Sleep well?”

Tybalt blinked at him. For an instant, his face was open, surprised, before shuttering into his usual permanent faint frown. He looked paler than usual, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced, as if he hadn’t slept at all. His eyes cut over to where Mercutio was sitting with Romeo, and then back to Benvolio, and his mouth twisted. “Shouldn’t you be sitting with your _friends_?”

Benvolio shrugged and began to cut up his pancakes. He could play this casual; he knew now what Tybalt looked like when his walls were down, what his hands felt like when he forgot to grab and just held. What his mouth felt like when it gentled against his. It was worth being a little patient. “We’re not exclusive. I can have more friends if I want to, you know. Maybe even friends who know how to keep their mouths shut sometimes.”

For a long moment, they seemed to exist in a little bubble of silence except for the click of knife and fork against plates, the quiet morning chatter of the canteen a distant buzz. Tybalt looked at him stone-faced, the corners of his mouth a little downturned, lips pressed tight together, and damned if Benvolio wasn’t tempted to lean over the table and kiss him right there, kiss him until his eyes closed and his mouth softened and even the buzz faded away.

Patience, he reminded himself. Public displays of affection were the advanced class for someone like Tybalt. They’d have to start with plain old displays of affection and work up.

“I make no promises about keeping my mouth shut,” Tybalt finally said, so deadpan Benvolio wasn’t sure if there was an innuendo in there somewhere. “And try not to talk too much. I’m not doing an extra shift if you chatter yourself into passing out.”

“Sure, not an unnecessary word.” Benvolio smiled into his synthcaf, carefully not looking up. He’d won already. Tybalt just didn’t know it yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments very much welcome and appreciated. :-)


End file.
